


broken boy

by halo21



Category: Nirvana (Band)
Genre: Depression, Drug Addiction, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Seattle, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25473208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halo21/pseuds/halo21
Summary: "I've got this friend, you see, who makes me feel..."🖤'broken boy.' if someone calls him that again, I swear to God I'll scream.
Relationships: Kurt Cobain/Courtney Love, Kurt Cobain/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written anything for this since May 2019, but it's pretty popular on Wattpad and I may pick it back up someday, so... 
> 
> Enjoy, ladies and gents

'Broken boy.'

If someone calls him that one more time, I swear to God, I'll scream. 

Let me get something straight, a disclaimer to everyone who doesn't know him, before we begin this true and sordid tale: Kurt was never broken, -- at least not in the off-the-rails, too-far-gone, totally-shattered way that everyone seems to think he was. He was fragile, maybe, and with good reason, but never someone who couldn't be mended, just a bit. 

The problem is that no one ever bothered to do that. 

They just pushed him further. 

Don't get the wrong idea: I'm not ignorant. I'll place some of the blame on myself, -- and rightfully so. There were so many times when I could have put the camera down and stopped looking at him through the lens that the outside world saw him through, taken a good, hard look when he wouldn't allow others close enough to do so. 

Did I do that? No. Do I regret it? Hell yeah.

But I'm not gonna play the martyr. That's everybody else's job, it seems. 

For these reasons alone, it seems like I am the only person truly equipped to tell this story, -- in a wholly truthful and unexaggerated manner, that is. Simply put, if you hear it all from me, there won't be any BS, -- I won't cover up or invent things to make myself look better. I won't pretend that nobody saw any of this coming. I won't make a single person in this story out to be a perfect angel, nor the worldly embodiment of Satan. 

And if I cry, you'll know the tears are real. 

I guess I better cut to the chase, -- all introductions are is a formality, anyway. Besides, my hand's kind of cramping up. 

So, without further ado, here it is: The Full Story, as I Know It.

Enjoy the ride, babies. 

xoxo

\- Anastasia


	2. Chapter 2

April 1990

♡

I was really starting to hate Washington. Not the man, -- I had hated him for a long time, vehemently so since I got detention in the sixth grade for angrily declaring that every single one of the founding fathers was overrated, anyway. (Admittedly not the best declaration to make in History class during an in-depth study of the Revolutionary War, but still.)

No, -- in this case, I was talking about my home state. 

I despised the town of Aberdeen and the city of Seattle most of all. And if you want to know the reasons why, I am still more than happy to bitch about them. 

I hated Aberdeen because there was nothing to see, -- and yet, it was all I had to look at throughout my twenty years of existence. What was it, other than arbor, boredom, and a steadily growing pack of alcoholics, many of them homeless? Not much. And yet, there I was, -- still there. Still stuck. 

I hated Seattle because, on the rare occasion that I decided to swim upstream and try to make something of myself there, I would get laughed at, spit on, or some bonafide jackass would be 'punk as hell' and try to break my camera. Literally, -- punch a hole right through it. 

That's what happened the night before; I dared to venture into one of the seedy underground clubs in the city to snap a few pictures, maybe something I could at least get published in somebody's zine later. (Hey... even if I was well on my way to food shelter status with the drunks, I didn't want to die of starvation without at least a few people seeing my artistic merit, even if it was for free. If that happened, my death in itself would seem a bit counterproductive.) 

Then some douche with a X drawn on the back of his hand, (a straightedge, so he couldn't blame his dumb-assery on alcohol,) came at me with his mediocre right hook, calling for his buddies to watch, this was gonna be good. 

Unfortunately for him, it never did get good, as his speed when punching holes through things left much to be desired. I jerked away before he could do anything, somehow managing not to drop my camera and bring it to its untimely demise myself. Looking at the loser's stupidly crestfallen face afterwards, I almost wished he had acted faster, just so he could get a fistful of glass. 

Unable to stomach sticking around any longer after that, I decided then that I'd cut the evening short. And so, with my head held high, I stomped right out of that smarmy punker club, -- but not before ol' Slowfist's goons caught up with me, raising their straightedge middle fingers and spitting out every variation of 'bitch' known to mankind, as if it were the most scathing, original insult in the world. 

That was when I began to understand why 'punk' is so often used as a derogatory term. 

Deciding that I didn't have the strength to do it all over again less than twenty-four hours later, I ended up learning against the railing of a bridge over the Wishkah river, idly zooming in on the water below, trying in vain to find something worth capturing on the banks. 

It wasn't just that the river was ugly and polluted, -- though it was both of those things, no doubt. 

It was that I had seen other things, much better to photograph, much more my speed, -- and yet, every time I tried to commit it to photographic immortality, I was discounted and thrown around like a rag doll, all because I had boobs and a camera strap around my neck. If I didn't want to be treated like a piece of rotten meat, I had to turn to the hippy-dippy cliché that was nature photography, in a place that contained the polar opposite of natural beauty. 

I could have color, -- shiny guitars, patched-up jackets, brightly-colored mohawks, un-Washington-like revolutions-in-progress. 

Instead I got mud and fish of drab hues, swimming upstream in waters that were probably packed with parasites. 

It sucked. Big time. 

Nevertheless, I continued to toy with the lens, hoping that, if I just zoomed in far enough, I'd find something worthy of capturing. Squinting, I continued to force the thing to focus. That was it... or maybe just a little more...

"Hey!"

I startled at the sound of the shout, nearly losing my grip on my camera. Luckily, my reflexes came in handy once more; I caught it, only to find it tilted at an angle just awkward enough that I could see the person yelling. 

It was a guy, if the deep voice and growing beard meant anything, though the long blonde hair and form-swallowing sweatshirt might have made it difficult to tell otherwise. He was somewhat concealed by the bridge itself, casting a long shadow over him, though I could see how he nonchalantly leaned against it, taking an occasional drag from his cigarette in a manner that was somehow both meticulously steady and mind-numbingly lazy. 

Slowly, he turned his head up towards the sky, -- or, in this case, the bridge, where I just so happened to be standing, camera balanced precariously in my hands. Face burning at my own irresponsibility, I pulled back ever-so-slightly. 

The guy continued to stare, making it clear that he probably wasn't calling out to anybody else. Yet, for all his looking, he never said anything, -- just puffed on that cigarette of his, blowing smoke rings up into the air as he risked breaking his neck.

Seeing how he looked at me, I kind of wanted to do it myself. 

In an effort to shoo away my homicidal thoughts, I killed the awkward silence. "Take a picture," I snapped. "It'll last longer."

No, the irony was not lost on me. 

Though my remark seemed to lift his trance somewhat, the guy still didn't seem to completely snap out of whatever state he was in. He had to be a junkie, I decided. A junkie, a drunk, a smoker, a stoner, and a bum. 

The holy Aberdeen trifecta. 

"Oh," he said. Even that one syllable seemed all too slow. "I'm sorry. I was just gonna tell you, -- you'd better not jump."

Now, that statement caught me off guard. Of all the things that he could have said, I did not expect that to be it. "Excuse me?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I mean, yeah," he said, as if what I had asked had been a yes-or-no question. "I'd rather not witness a suicide today. I still have the rest of my life to further traumatize myself, you know." 

I rolled my eyes. "I wasn't gonna jump, idiot." I held up my hand. "I have a camera. See?" 

He chuckled. "Yeah, well..." He shrugged, bringing that cigarette back to his lips. "People do some weird shit when they're past the point of no return." 

Now I stared at him, all at once disgusted, dumbfounded, and mystified. Who was this guy, sizing up my possible suicidal ideation when he could barely see my face?

Finally, I opened my mouth again. "You know," I began. "Maybe you should come up here, if you want to give me a thorough psych evaluation. You never know what you could miss, not looking someone in the eye." 

He snorted. "God, you're a smartass!" Abruptly, he threw his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with his shoe before kicking it towards the water. More pollution. Lovely. "...but I'll bite. Hold on a second."

For whatever reason, I did hold on. Maybe there was some part of me that wasn't afraid of dying, even if it was at the hands of this judgemental junkie rather than myself. Maybe it was the artistic starvation rooted deep within me, longing for a new, non-chordate subject. 

No matter my motivation, I was soon face-to-face with this guy. This messy, stone-faced wanderer, flaxen hair tangled and windblown, face dotted with stubble, eyes icy in color and inflection. All in all, his was an artistic face, one that looked too weathered for someone who was probably my age, maybe just a bit older. It was a face that started to tell a story, then left you on a cliffhanger. 

I wanted to snap a picture of it, then run far away. 

All the while I examined him, the guy seemed to study me, too. Still, I suspected he didn't look very far past the surface; he broke his focus soon, grinning slyly. Whatever he was looking for, he had seemed to find it. 

"Nope," he announced. "Looks like you were right: I don't see death anywhere in your eyes. Either you're an expert at hiding it, or I am one morbid son of a gun..."

"I'm thinking it's the latter," I said, though I wasn't sure, really. Suddenly,I felt kind of wigged out, in a really odd way. I had just let this creepy homeless guy look really closely at me, and for what? So he'd be able to identify me in the streets later, if he wanted to do me in? So I could figure out what color his eyes were? So I'd know whether or not he really smelled like river water, stale smoke, and street stench, up close? 

I didn't know if any of these were the correct answers to that question. All that I knew is that I wanted to get the hell out of there, right then. 

I turned around in an attempt to do just that, only to be stopped by his voice. "Hey, where're you going?"

"None of your business," I shot back.

Much to my dread, he chuckled. "Alright, firecracker," he said. "Can I at least have your name?"

I don't know what possessed me to do it, exactly. But, for whatever reason, in that moment, I told the truth. 

For just a bit, I turned around. "Anastasia Trueheart," I said. 

Then, to add insult to injury, he laughed again. That's what my life was steadily becoming those days: a joke.

"Can't be real," he said.

My face burned, boiling with frustration. "Of course it's real," I spat. "Why? What's your name? John Doe?" 

He smiled, shaking his head. "Kurt Cobain."

I huffed out a laugh. "Yeah," I said. "Like that's any better. Since when do people have the name 'Cobain?' Who the actual hell calls themselves that?" 

He continued to stare at me like I was an utter basket case, smiling condescendingly. "Me," he says. "And my dad, and his dad. And my mom, back in the day."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever."

With that, I turned on my heel, planning to be gone for good. "I'm done here," I announced. "Catch you later, Copenhagen."

All the way home, I spent time cleaning out the most obsessive-compulsive, oddly morbid parts of my mind, just so he wouldn't have the satisfaction of being right about any of it. The last weird thought I cleared was the weirdo himself following me into the alley, only to let me get one last picture before everything went crashing down, -- his artsy, aesthetically pleasing, boyishly-sinister face. 

I learned two things that evening.

One: at least some twisted version of your weird fantasies will probably happen to you someday. 

Two: be careful what you wish for.


	3. Chapter 3

May 1990

♡

Back in the saddle again. 

This is what I thought, somewhat bitterly, as I stood outside of some nightclub in the heart of the city. 

It had taken me a little bit short of a month to grow completely disenchanted with taking pictures of fish and moss. In the end, I told myself that hiding out and involuntarily starving myself was letting people like the straightedge camera-breaker win, and decided to return for the next show that everyone was making a fuss about.

Nirvana. 

That was the simple name that stuck out to me when I heard the radio commercial. Some guy spoke in monotone, announcing the specifics of time and location with a sense of apathy that left me absolutely sure that it would be my type of scene. 

What I didn't count on when I heard that commercial, however, was the sheer amount of people who would be showing up. As many shows as I had attended, I was positive that this one ranked pretty high on my list when it came to turnout. 

Throngs of flannel-clad delinquents lined up at the door, awaiting the go-ahead with a palpable sense of eagerness that made me uneasy. It was a very nervous environment; just about everyone was tapping their feet, shifting their weight, drinking out of a paper bag, or taking a drag off a cigarette. None of it made me feel any better about what I was going in to do.

A large crowd is bad enough. An antsy crowd, however, is so much worse. 

My nerves were not eased any by the pair of obnoxious jackasses behind me. There they were, mere inches away from me, loudly joking. One of them seemed to be blowing the smoke from his cigarette directly into my hair, -- given the amount of hairspray I had put in before I left the apartment, it was a wonder I hadn't caught fire yet. (Sidenote: ladies, if you're ever looking to make yourself more intimidating, make your hair bigger. I've found that it makes me feel powerful, like a lioness.) 

One of the two aforementioned jackasses spoke in a ridiculously loud, extremely exuberant voice. I assumed he was a kid; the more excited he got, the squeakier his voice was, undeniably adolescent. Not to mention that his demeanor was definitely of one who had not yet had his spirits tamped down by the world. 

"So," he said to his buddy, "the guy was just stalling, needle in hand, -- asking me if I was sure that I was eighteen, that I wasn't just messing around with him. I said, 'yeah, dude. Did the ID look fake to you?' He said, 'nah, the ID looked good. It's the video game controller you got tattooed on you that's setting me off.' And I said 'Christ, dude, I might've been a kid then, but I'm not one now. So go ahead and do it before somebody assumes that you're not doing your job.' Then, -- oh, get this--"

He laughed loudly. More smoke traveled in the general vicinity of my head. 

"He said," he continued through hysterical chortles, "'Alright, man, fine. I just wanna make sure that your mom isn't gonna drag my ass to court if you get an infection.' Then I said, 'hey, man, don't worry about that. My mom's helped me run from the cops before. All she'd do to you is come to blows, and that's only if she's having a really bad day.'" He paused, -- by the smell of it, to take another drag off his cigarette. "Then he did it, and it hurt like a bitch. But look how sweet it turned out."

"Mmm-hmm," the other guy replied, his voice both deeper and lower, mercifully. 

Everything went nearly silent, if only for a moment, before the second guy spoke again. "Hey, dude. You might wanna put that out. I think it's bothering the girl in front of us."

He was right; it most definitely was bothering me. Still, I whipped around rather quickly to make sure that that remark was not a snide one. 

The only response I got was a startled expression from the taller guy, and a hum of acknowledgment from the shorter one as he dropped the offending cigarette to the ground. 

"Alright, alright, I'm doing it," the first guy said, grinding his Converse sneaker against the cement. His long dark hair obscured his face, which I had previously seen set in concentration. "Jesus, hold your horses..."

The tall guy eyed me apologetically, an expression somewhere between a grin and a grimace on his face. "Sorry about him," he said. "He just gets... excited." 

"Excited?" the first guy echoed. Finally seeming to be satisfied with the snuffing out of his cigarette, he looked back up at the two of us. "Nah, man, I'm not excited. I'm terrified out of my freaking mind. We're caught up in the audience traffic, and the doors backstage are locked, which means that we're gonna be late to our own damn show. Kurt is going to have a shit hemorrhage, I tell you what--"

"'Shit hemmorhage?'" the second guy replied incredulously. "Who the hell says that?" 

"I say that," the other one said, "but apparently you don't, so I'll translate. Kurt is going to have a cow."

In the midst of this very interesting exchange, I offered no response. I was too busy obsessing over the name 'Kurt.' Hadn't I heard that somewhere else, rather recently?

"Okay, Dave. You don't have to be a smartass about it." The guy sighed, running a hand through his shaggy black hair. "Your attitude really isn't helping anything, you know."

The reminder of the stress coming with this situation snapped me back to reality. "Wait. You're with the band?" 

The shorter guy, -- Dave, apparently, -- smiled at me. "Actually," he said. "Krist and I are approximately sixty-six point eight percent of the band. Meaning that all those people are really waiting for is our vocalist and his guitar."

"Dude," the apparent Krist said, "your math's pretty impressive, for a stoned guy." 

"What can I say? Mom told me to keep my grades up."

Witnessing this development, my heart sank. Oh, God. All this hype for a band that goes outside to toke up, only not to be able to get back in to their venue?

Irregardless, I wanted to help. "I might be able to get a word in with the bouncer," I said. "I'm here for professional reasons, -- photography, -- and I also have, um--" I could hardly believe the level I had stooped to as I gestured towards my bosom, pointing out to everyone that I was, indeed, of the female persuasion. "...um, these."

Krist and Dave stared at me blankly, obviously wondering what my boobs had to do with any of this. My face burst into flames. Why did I have to get like this when I got nervous?

"Right," I said. "Well, the show's supposed to start in fifteen minutes, so... suppose I should probably make that snappy." 

"Please," Krist replied, crossing his arms over his chest. "Do."

"Alright." Taking a deep breath and steadying myself on the heels of my boots (another intimidation tactic,) I stepped out of my place in line, braving the fire walk. An abundance of uttered complaints soon followed as I weaved along the side of the crowd towards the front doors, offering half-hearted apologies all the way. 

Once I finally made it to the front of the line, the bouncer eyed me with an expression mixed between surprise and utter disenchantment. "Excuse me, miss," he started, his voice more like a grumble than anything else. "What are you--"

Somewhat breathless from my extremely dangerous venture, I leaned in closer to offer him the truth, quiet enough so that the rabid crowd wouldn't hear it. "I have two out of three members of Nirvana behind me in line," I murmured. "They got a little, ah... preoccupied, and they're kind of locked out right now when they really should be backstage. So, before they get eaten alive, I figure somebody should--"

The bouncer snorted. "Yeah, cute story, kid. Do I look like I was born yesterday?" He sneered. "Look, little girl, I've been doing this for years. I've seen your type before, too many times to count. You think I can't tell by the way you're dressed? Damn, groupies will try anything to get backstage and into these guys' tight-ass pants, -- and I know every trick in the book." He gave me one last appraising look before waving one large bear-paw hand at me dismissively. "Go on, now. Back to Mommy before curfew."

My blood burned in my veins. Apparently, my feminine assets weren't doing me any favors in this situation, -- they were actually making things worse. Still, I didn't step back. "Okay," I started. "First of all, I'm not dressed to get into anybody's tight-ass pants, so forget that. I'm dressed to make it obvious that I could totally kick any of these dude's asses. Second, I've long since left Mommy's nest, --hell, for all you know, I could be here to support a family of my own. Third, this isn't an excuse for anything, -- quite frankly, I don't want to be backstage with these fools, and, -- God, man, do you want me to show you?"

Still looking quite amused, the guy continued to stare at me, arms crossed over his chest. "Alright, kid, I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt one more time, even if it's just to see you make a damn fool out of yourself. Now, go ahead, cough 'em up, -- where are they?"

Grinning bitterly, I craned my neck back toward the crowd. "Dave? Krist?" I called. "Care to help me out a little here?" 

All attempts to not garner any attention proved futile as the two of them emerged from the back of the line, trudging towards the door wearing vague expressions of shame and anxiety. Members of the line looked on with their mouths open, as if the two of them were Greek gods, rather than members of some Seattle rock band. Once they had reached my side, Dave gave the bouncer a wry grin. 

"Hey, Phil," he said. "What's shaking?" 

The bouncer stared at them for a long while, face contorted in disgust. Finally, he turned back to me with a look of exasperation. I smiled back at him, proud. "Dammit, kid," he sighed. "You weren't kidding. Okay, then, -- Grohl, Novoselic, take the key..." He fished around in the back pocket of his pants for a bit before coming up with the key he was looking for, dropping it into Krist's hand. 

Dave continued to grin at him as if he had just given him a million dollars, nodding appreciatively. "Thank you for your service."

Phil grimaced. "Yeah, well, remember that, Grohl. I'm not doing this next time." He turned back to me, eyes stern as he pointed one fat finger at my chest. "You aren't going with them," he barked, still seeming to be convinced that this was some sort of groupie conspiracy. "You can go back to the back of the line and wait with everybody else." 

"Fine by me," I replied, tilting my chin up at him. "Thanks for believing in me."

With that, I turned to walk away, only to vaguely hear Dave offer another remark to the bouncer. "Be easy with her, Phil," he said. "She's a good one." 

♡

Due to my little detour, I was one of the last people to make it through the doors. By the time I was on the standing floor, the club was already packed full, the crowd buzzing with excitement. The stage was still dark, no Krist, Dave, or mysterious Kurt anywhere in sight. 

I settled beside a relatively non-violent looking couple once I had moved to the middle of the crowd, both flannel-wearing, long-haired, and seemingly inebriated. Neither showed any interest in me nor my camera equipment, -- let alone breaking anything. 

Once I had reached some level of security and adjusted my lens, the lights in the rest of the room went down, leaving the spotlight on the stage to grow brighter. I squinted, heart beating faster in anticipation. 

Let's see what we're working with, I thought. 

Then the lights came on, and the feedback started, and I damn near had a stroke.

Not just because everybody on the floor with me was screaming, or because the music was somehow more loud and aggressive than the screaming itself. Not because Krist and Dave, despite their previous snafu, seemed to actually know what they were doing without missing a beat. 

No.

I almost had a stroke because when the blue-tinted lights finally fell on the guy with the guitar standing at the front of the stage, it caught features that quickly became familiar to me. 

Pale blonde hair. Stubble-dotted face. A mouth that seemed to both snarl and grin at once. A silhouette, swallowed in a baggy sweater. 

This Kurt that Dave and Krist were talking about was the freaky bridge guy. 

"Kurt Copenhagen," I muttered to myself. "Well, who woulda thunk it?"

And who would've thought that this was what he did? I was rather floored, myself. When I had met him by chance about four weeks before, he was aloof, quiet, a bit off-putting. I would have just as soon figured that he was one of those weirdos that everyone leaves alone because they assume he eats bugs or something. 

And yet, here were all of these punkish kids, gravitating towards him like moths to a flame. They loved him, I could tell; this club was filled with misfits, and, in their midst, he was a messiah. The lighting worked really well with that sentiment. 

This thought in mind, I lifted my camera, zooming in towards the stage, where all of them were looking up at him as if he were some sort of savior. Hesitantly, I shuffled closer, hoping a fist wouldn't come flying at me out of nowhere. 

Lo and behold, one never did. 

He just had them that transfixed, it seems. It was a bit awe-inspiring, really; he strummed at his guitar until his fingers were surely bleeding, though the manner in which he did so could likely be written off as lazy. It seemed natural, really, like something he had been doing all his life. In that moment, I almost believed that it came as easily to him as breathing. 

Speaking of breathing, he really didn't seem to be doing much of that as he screamed into the microphone, forming words that didn't really sound like words at all, unless you were listening hard enough. It was a language the audience seemingly understood, though, so I tried my best to do so as well. 

I eventually found that, much like my bug-eating theory, the lyrics to this abrasive powerhouse of a song had something to do with high school. 

I stood there, snapping pictures of the crowd gathering around this perplexing man, and wondered if I had it all wrong. 

Maybe the man I had met on the bridge the month before was a mirage, foreshadowing what was to come when I got off my ass and went back to work. Maybe he was truly this guy's evil twin, stealing his identity to make people question their sanity. Or maybe this was the evil one: he could certainly make himself sound like someone who had dragged himself out of the depths of hell. 

Though I somehow didn't mean that in a bad way. No, not at all.

With a final shout of 'no recess,' simultaneously sounding like a painful surrender and a battle cry, the song came to a screeching stop. As the crowd screamed and applauded, Kurt remained close to the microphone, going silent as he messed around with the tuning pegs on his guitar. 

In the mean time, Dave spoke up from his position behind the drum set. "Good evening!"

The crowd responded with a resounding clamor. 

"Alright!" Dave shouted back. "We're Nirvana, as I'm sure you know, and we--"

"Shut up." 

As soon as those words left the vocalist's lips and the crowd began to roar with laughter, I knew that the man onstage absolutely had to be the same one from the bridge. I knew it as surely as I knew that the world was round, leather was badass, and my last name was ridiculous. 

This was Kurt Cobain. He might have been an aloof, off-putting smartass sometimes, but he knew for sure how to command a crowd, along with the slew of other things that he was good at. 

Though I swore then that I would never admit it out loud, I was infinitely more charmed by him when he was up on that stage than I was when he was speaking directly to me, giving me that frighteningly alluring smile of his. 

And, even shrouded by darkness and musty club fog, he was much more of a muse than he was with the camera pointed directly at his devastatingly interesting face. 

Once he was done tuning his guitar, Kurt leaned in closer to the microphone. "This next song is tentatively called "Imodium." Because if you believe in true love, you're evidently full of shit."

The crowd erupted in cheers again. I wrinkled my nose.

That was disgusting, but okay. 

Once again, he began strumming fervently, furiously. The band picked up a rhythm even faster than that of the last song before he began to sing. 

"I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, I don't care, care if it's old..."

Gradually, I began moving closer to the stage again, finger on the shutter of my camera. 

"I don't mind, I don't mind, I don't mind, I don't mind, I don't mind, don't have a mind..."

Suddenly, the girl I was standing next to leaned over to yell in my ear. "Do you want us to lift you?"

I turned towards her, startled. "What?" I shouted over the music. 

"Do you want us to lift you?" she repeated. "Do you want to crowd-surf?" 

My eyes went wide as I glared down at my own lower-half, only to find that my boots covered more than my skirt. Oh, hell no. 

"I don't think that's a good--"

"Nonsense!" the girl shouted. "Ronnie, c'mere!" 

"I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid, afraid, afraid... GHOST!"

Despite my protest, the girl's boyfriend, who was built like a linebacker, soon had me thrown over his shoulder. The two of them hoisted me out into the crowd, who surprisingly seemed happy to support me, -- though not without some hands creeping much higher up my thigh than they should have. I slapped them away time after time as I neared the stage, closer and closer to the chaos. 

"We could plant a house... we could build a tree... I don't even care... we could have all three..."

What the hell, I thought, finally positioning my finger back over the shutter. 

Click.

♡

After the show ended, I was totally and completely exhausted. I was drenched with sweat, my hair was a wreck, my skirt had a rip in the seam, and yet, somehow my camera had not been obliterated. Thankfully. 

As I headed for the doors of the club, I couldn't help but grin to myself with satisfaction. It had been quite the night, all in all, -- unintentional crowd-surfing aside, it just might have been the best show I had been to in a long while. 

Excluding the idiots that had put their hands in places where they definitely didn't need to be, no one had seemed to have a problem with me. In fact, the linebacker kid and his girlfriend had nodded to me on the way out. Smiling, I nodded back, a silent thank you for the excellent material they had unintentionally provided me with. 

Then, once I was halfway into the parking lot, a male voice called out from just behind me. "Hey!"

Just like that, a wave of unease washed over me once again. Dreading another confrontation with Phil the Bouncer, I turned around. Only then did I realize that I should've recognized that voice, -- only then did I realize it belonged to the practical child that I had gotten into his own show. 

"Hey," I shouted back at the drummer. "What now? Did you lock yourself in this time?"

"No," he replied, with a slight laugh. "I was actually wondering if you wanted to hang out backstage for a bit. You know, for your troubles." 

I froze then, looking him sternly in the eye. "Dave," I began slowly. "I'm just gonna go ahead and tell you now: I'm not that kind of girl." 

He nudged my arm playfully. "Not for that, silly," he said. "We're the ones doing you a favor. We figured you could come, have a chat, a drink, a smoke..." 

I continued to eye him dubiously. "You swear you won't try anything funny?"

"On my life." Clumsily, he traced a cross over his heart, grin widening. "Now... are we good?"

I shrugged. "I guess." For good measure, I followed this up with one last stern glare. "Just know that if any one of you so much as lays a finger where it shouldn't be, I'm out." 

"Deal."

"Good."

Awkwardly, we shook on it before he lead me across the club, to a locked door in the back. 

"This is where the magic happens," he said. "Where we get hyped, prime ourselves to be our very best for the crowd..."

I chuckled. "Unless you're going outside to toke up, right?" 

"Yeah." He chuckled nervously as he pushed the door open. "I guess so."

I gave a hum of acknowledgment as I stepped over the threshold into the room, giving it a quick once-over. After all the shows I had been to, I had only been backstage a handful of times before then. In comparison to the few others I had seen, this environment seemed relatively calm, almost in a disappointing manner. If there was any partying being done back there, it was gone about in a very lackluster fashion. 

It didn't take me long to spot the other two guys: Krist, steadily nursing a cup of some golden ale, and Kurt himself, slouching against the sofa without any drink or smoking apparatus in hand. Their eyes remained fixed on the TV set in front of them, playing some old movie that they had probably already seen a thousand times. 

Dave interrupted the silence. I was beginning to think that was one of the things he did best. "Look, guys," he said brightly. "I brought a friend!"

Krist's eyes wandered in my direction. Kurt remained still. 

"Hey," Krist said. "It's good to see you again, um..."

"Oh. Damn." Dave turned back to me, eyes looking slightly guilty. "What's your name again?"

"You never got it," I replied politely. "But it's Anastasia." My eyes wandered back towards Kurt, waiting for the recognition to dawn. "Anastasia Trueheart." 

Even after I said my name, he didn't give me any indication that he knew who I was. Hell, it was practically as if I didn't exist at all. 

Dave nodded. "Cool name."

Silence settled over the four of us like a blanket, suffocating us within the already stifling room. I shuffled my feet a little, unsure of just what I was supposed to do now. 

Finally, Dave spoke up again. "So, um..." he said. "You guys wanna have a smoke? I've got cigs--"

Kurt interrupted him, his voice stern. "Don't."

Looking surprised, Dave gazed at him. "Why not?"

"Because," Kurt replied gruffly. "The smell of them makes me sick."

Dave scoffed. "Dude. You smoke." 

"Well, I hardly feel like doing it right now. I'm not as far gone as you are." With that, he stood up, surprising me. He didn't look at any of us as he sauntered around the room, seeming to gather his belongings: his guitar in its case, a jacket, some unmarked book. "So if you're gonna do it in here, I'll just go--"

"No," Krist interrupted him. He turned back to Dave, giving him a sharp look of disapproval, before approaching Kurt. He laid a supportive hand on the other man's arm. "We'll go outside. It's kinda hot in here, anyway." 

Once Kurt had returned to his seat on the couch, Krist headed for the door, turning back to look at Dave and I. "You coming?" 

Dave just stared at him blankly before casting another glance back at Kurt. Not wanting to be caught up in the awkwardness of the moment any longer, I nodded, trailing him. "Yeah."

"Good. Come on, Dave." As soon as the drummer looked back at him, Krist smiled, the seriousness fading away from his face. "You do have the cigs, after all."

♡

"So... what's wrong with him?" 

I asked this as I finished taking a drag off my cigarette, waiting for anyone to answer. 

True to his nature, Dave did so first. "His heart got smashed up."

I raised my eyebrows, lifting the cigarette back up to my lips. "Sounds... dramatic." I blew a few more smoke rings before turning back to him. "Tell me more."

Even in the dark, I could see Krist rolling his eyes. "Dave is the one being dramatic," he said. "Kurt's going through a rough time right now, to put it plainly. He's a little down, but with good reason."

"Good reason?" Dave snorted. "Look, I get being sad, but he's being downright gloomy about it. It's really bringing me down, and don't act like it isn't messing with you, too." He looked back down at the cigarette between his fingers with a grimace. "It's not our fault, anyway. It's not like we made Tobi break up with him."

"Shut up, Grohl."

I stared at Krist, eyes going wide in surprise. Even having only known him for about two and a half hours, I could guess that this kind of forcefulness was uncharacteristic for him. 

Judging by how he softened afterwards, I was right. Still, he made no move to apologize to Dave; it appeared he stood by what he said when he met my eyes. "Kurt's going through a breakup with the girl that he's been in love with for years," he said. Even if Kurt wasn't out there with us, I could see the sympathy that Krist had for him, flashing in his eyes. "It's hitting him pretty hard. He feels everything really deeply, you see,--" He sent a pointed glance back at Dave. "--and he has very good reason to."

Dave shrugged. "Sorry." He pulled his knees up to his chest, staring down at his sneakers intently. "I've only been in this band for like a month, man. Forgive me for not being as well-versed in Cobain-ese as you are." He continued to tug at his cigarette, staring out into the parking lot thoughtfully. "Maybe I'm just taking it personally because Kurt doesn't like drummers right now..."

Krist shook his head, clicking his tongue. "Always making it about you," he muttered. 

Before anyone could say anything else, the door leading from backstage opened. I craned my neck, only to find Kurt himself standing there, guitar case thrown over his shoulder. 

Dave jumped upon seeing him, almost as if he were afraid that he had heard our previous conversation. "Hey," he said. 

"Hello," Kurt replied. "Are you two planning on going home anytime soon, or..." 

"Yeah," Krist replied. He stood up, brushing off his pantslegs as he dropped his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out. "C'mon, Grohl. Time to hit the road."

"Got it." Dave stubbed out his cigarette as well, before heading back inside. "I'll go get our things."

As they packed up their things, a strange sense of invisibility came to settle over me, -- and thus, something like emptiness. I didn't like it. Not one bit.

And so, to bring myself some peace of mind, I called out to Kurt before they hopped into their van and left. "Hey, Copenhagen."

"Hey, firecracker," he replied nonchalantly, as if he had known it was me all along. Like we were old friends. He leaned back against the van, looking at me through the dark. "Will I be seeing you at the next show?" 

I shrugged. "Maybe you will."

"Great." He patted the hood of the vehicle before following Krist and Dave inside it, settling in the driver's seat. "I hope I do. Thanks for coming." 

With that, he closed the door and revved the engine, leaving me behind before I could reply.


	4. Chapter 4

June 1990

♡

"You're back."

Those words were a statement, not a question. Some might have mistaken the matter-of-fact manner in which they were spoken for rudeness, and maybe, to some extent, there was a bit of snark there. 

Then again, from our previous two meetings, I had begun to guess that the speaker in question was not overly friendly. 

Still, when I turned to face the man beside me, the street lamp caught a hint of pleasant surprise within his expression. I smiled, flicking the ashes out of my burnt-out cigarette. 

"Yup," I said. "Did you think I wouldn't be back?"

Kurt shrugged, leaning back against the brick wall outside of the club. "I don't know." His reply was quiet, perhaps containing a hint of something meek. He kicked at a pebble at he continued. "I don't know you, so I don't know how to pick out insincerity." He looked back up then, the orange of the lamp catching the blue in his eyes. "...and I'm very selective when it comes to who I believe."

I snorted, a rather unattractive noise. "Jesus," I muttered. "You overthink everything, don't you?"

He turned to face me, offering a small grin. "It's a curse." 

"Apparently."

I stood there for a moment, observing the newfound quiet between the two of us. Waiting to see where it would go. 

In truth, I had every attention of catching another show at some point. Not soon enough to look desperate to build a rapport with the band themselves, nor when I could be missing any other, more important opportunity to advance my career. I figured that if they continued to garner as much attention as they had previously, the time for me to come back to them would come soon enough. 

And it did. Even if it wasn't quite in the way I had expected. 

As it turned out, my freelance career wasn't quite as fruitless as I expected it would be. I had gotten a few of my photos from the last few shows I had attended out of the darkroom and into the hands of an editor at one of the premier local music publications. Her reply came quickly, and her wishes for future material were made clear. 

"These are great, Anastasia," she had chirped over the phone. "I'd really like to see more. Particularly like the ones you took at the Nirvana show. You know, everyone around here thinks that they're the next big thing."

With that, I had done my best to secure tickets to their next local show, arrive early, and get the best footage that I possibly could. 

Who would have thought that Copenhagen himself was my secret to bringing home the bacon?

As I fiddled with the camera strap around my neck, pondering this, I soon came to the conclusion that Kurt wasn't always very much of a talker. To have seemed so unhinged onstage, he seemed to be rather comfortable with silence in regular conversations, regardless of how awkward it could become. 

Taking note of this, I soon came to the conclusion that I would have to be the one to break the silence. "So, what are you doing out here, Mr. Rockstar?" I asked. "Don't you have a show in about an hour and a half?" 

He grimaced. "Nerves are shot," he responded. "I need a cigarette, at least. And, um..." He cast his eyes down towards the stub still between my fingers. "I figured you might have some."

"Oh." I reached for my bag, fishing the box out of the bottom before handing it to him. "Here."

"Much appreciated." He picked one out before passing the box back to me. "Lighter?"

"Sure thing." I tucked the box back into my bag before handing over my Zippo.

He observed it for a moment, turning it over in his hand. "Fancy," he remarked. "You must have money to throw away." Cigarette between his teeth, he lit up before passing it back to me.

I laughed wryly at his previous comment. "Hardly. I've had the same one since I was seventeen. Used my allowance on it, and my fake ID on my first refill." 

He chuckled, releasing a puff of smoke into the warm summer evening air. "Couldn't wait another year, huh?" 

"Nah." I smiled. "I picked up most of my nasty habits before my eighteenth birthday."

"Well... that makes two of us."

Before I could ruminate on this statement for too long, he began to move along. "Well, I guess you're right," he said. "Better get a move on if I want this show to be even halfway decent. And you better get in line if you want any sort of view." 

He smiled, a real, toothy grin, unlike the reserved, almost-pained wincing smirks he had given me earlier. "Thanks for the cigarette, firecracker."

Then, before I could reply, he tacked on another bit of praise: "thank you for coming back."

♡

It could have been a Beatles song. 

There was a charm to that one number in particular, the song that slowed the whole visceral experience of a Nirvana concert down, if only for a moment. Hell, it was practically sweet. 

The guitar still gave it a punch to pack within its pop appeal, but it couldn't disguise that look in those blue eyes, caught by the light again. Striking, I thought to myself, snapping another shot from my position just beneath the stage. 

Kurt smiled, the right side of his lip rounding into a perfect curve as he leaned forward. It was almost if he wasn't afraid to fall into the crowd, trusting that we'd catch him. 

All the while, he kept repeating those words like some lovesick mantra.

"I do..."

The cynic in me said not to buy into it. It was another anti-love song, I told myself. Whoever the subject of the lyrics was, she wasn't likely to ever truly give him the time of day. The words said he knew this. 

But, oh, his eyes didn't. 

I stood there, finger on the shutter button, shamefully immersed as he repeated those words, each repetition a promise to someone who might never hear it.

"I do..."

♡

Once again, everyone was gone. Except for me. Or at least, so I thought.

On this evening in particular, I'll admit, I was in one of my more pitiful moods. Not necessarily of the 'woe-is-me' variety; I saved those for later, when I actually had other people to worry about, ironically enough. This was one of my more reflective bouts, most likely brought on by the bad habits discussion Kurt and I had shared before the show. 

When all the strangers that had previously crowded around me began to file out of the building, this feeling surfaced within me, taking the form of loneliness. 

If there was one thing I was sure of when that moment hit, it was that I needed another drink. 

And so I skulked off to get one before the bar closed. It was only after I had placed my order that I felt a large hand settle on my shoulder in a manner that seemed ominously comfortably. As of the person attached to the hand knew me well enough to think that it belonged there.

I turned around, only to be met with the sight of a gangly bald-headed guy. Already in a funk, I figured the best thing to do was to scream, swatting at him with the rather heavy bag I wore over my shoulder. 

"Get your hands off me! What do you think you're doing?" 

"Anastasia! Quit it! It's just me! Krist!" 

I stopped swinging for a moment, only to find that it was. His mop of dark hair might have been gone, shaved clean off, but it was without a doubt the bassist that I had met a month ago. Hell, he had just been onstage about twenty minutes ago.

I guessed I wasn't paying enough attention. 

"Sorry," I huffed, pulling away. "I didn't know... you shaved your head..." 

He eyed me with a vague look of concern. "Are you high?"

"No," I replied, though I wasn't sure it sounded very convincing. "I was just... waiting on my drink."

"And this is drink number... what?"

I rolled my eyes, face burning. "None of your business, Novoselic." 

"Ah," he said. "Can't have had too many, then. Usually people can't pronounce my last name after the fourth." 

I didn't say anything, feeling a familiar sense of guilt rise within me. I tried to shake it off as the bartender slid my drink to me across the bar. Picking it up and lifting it to my lips with shaking hands, I internally chastised myself. Ridiculous. 

Krist lingered by the bar awkwardly, hands jammed in the pockets of his ripped jeans. I eyed him expectantly, waiting for him to offer anything of use. 

Finally, he did. 

"Anyhow," he started. "Kurt told Dave and I that he had seen you before the show, and wanted me to see if you were still around."

"Really?" I took another sip of my drink, eyeing him appraisingly through the dark. "And why is that?" 

He shrugged. "Said he wanted to have a talk about that camera of yours. I don't know if that's a euphemism, or..." 

I nearly choked at that. "No!" 

Once I had finally stopped sputtering, I finished the rest of my statement. "I'm... pretty sure he's talking about an actual camera."

"If you say so." He grinned, motioning towards the back of the club. "Come on, then. He's waiting."

♡

"Welcome back, Lady Anastasia!"

I smiled at Dave's greeting as I closed the door behind me. "Good evening to you, Sir David. Excellent show you gave this evening."

Dave beamed from his spot on the torn-up leather couch. "Many thanks."

I tipped my head towards him in a nod of recognition before locating Kurt from across the room. After an evening of being the center of attention, he seemed to find refuge in a corner, fiddling with what seemed to be yet another cigarette. Upon noticing my presence, he lifted his head, strands of damp blonde hair falling in front of his face. 

"Hey, firecracker," he greeted me. "You still have that Zippo, or..."

"Here, freeloader." I dug around in my bag before handing it over to him. "We really ought to quit the things."

He chuckled, lifting the orange-blue flame to the edge of the cancer-stick. "Fat chance."

Dave eyed us curiously. "Firecracker?" He raised his eyebrows. "What does--" 

Krist took it upon himself to interrupt, crossing his arms across his chest with a grin. "It seems Anastasia can be known to... go off." He mimed an explosion. 

The gesture inspired a sly smile from Kurt. "You have," he started, voice muffled by the cigarette, "absolutely no idea." 

Dave chuckled. "Seems that you know her a lot better than we do, Kurt," he said. "Doesn't seem very business-like."

"Business-like?" I echoed. I turned to Kurt, eyes narrowing. "You brought me in here to do business?" 

"Depends." He blew out a large puff of smoke before turning to meet my eyes. "These pictures you take," he began, pulling the cigarette from between his lips. "Are they any good?"

"Huh," I chuckled. "I'd like to think so."

"I think he's asking," Dave piped up, "what your credentials are."

"Credentials." Kurt laughed. "That's a big word for you, Grohl."

"My credentials..." I tapped a finger against the side of my face, considering it. "Well," I continued. "I've had a few photos put in some local publications recently... but other than that, it's nothing to really write home about."

I quickly realized that this was not the right thing to say, judging by the three sets of surprised eyes that soon fell on me from all over the room. 

"Not because they aren't impressive," I clarified. "But because I'm still pretty much a fledgling."

"Fledgling," Kurt echoed. "Like a little bird." He turned towards me with a smile that I couldn't read the intentions behind. "Sounds promising."

I struggled to come up with the appropriate, businesslike response to that, only to quickly realize that I would have to flounder a lot more first. Dammit, why was I blushing?

Finally, I shrugged. "Really," I said. "I can't exactly tell you how good my work is with very much credibility. But, if you're that interested, I could go get a few developed and come back at some point... if you really want to see them."

Kurt nodded. "Sounds great." He paused, motioning towards my bag. "You got something to write on and with?"

"Uh... yeah, probably." I emerged with a pen and a gas station receipt, pushing it into his hand. 

He quickly went to work, scribbling something quickly and fervently. For some reason, I took notice of how he wrote with his right hand, but had played the guitar left-handed. Then I spent an unknown amount of time wondering why I had noticed that. 

He handed it back soon enough. "Here."

I looked down, only to realize that it was both a home address and a phone-number. You best believe my face got even hotter then. 

No guy in all my twenty-one years had ever given me both at the same time.

"I've got a new little place outside of Aberdeen," he spoke up. "Maybe you can stop by when you get that done."

Looking back up at him sheepishly, I was met with a look of expectance in his aquamarine eyes. Of course, I thought. He had given to me without being asked, and now he figured he had earned something in return. 

"Give me yours?"

I stared back at him, hands shaking around the receipt. I clasped them together, trying not to let him see. I shook my head. "Just my number," I stated sternly. "I'm still not convinced you aren't some kind of freaky stalker." I nodded towards Krist and Dave. "With a pair of talented accomplices."

Krist laughed. "Talented!"

Dave grinned. "That feels good to know."

Kurt didn't acknowledge them. He just kept smiling, -- at me. "Fine by me," he said. "Just so we can keep in touch."

"Fine." I found another loose slip of paper before copying my number down and handing it to him. "Only call when you need to."

He kept grinning. "Sure."

"Alright " I stood up, brushing myself off. "I'm gonna go back home to my bed. And I won't tell you just where that's located."

I could feel their eyes on my back as I turned around, heading for the door. One set In particular. 

It was the owner of those eyes who spoke up first. "See you later, firecracker."

I responded with a slight laugh. "After while, creep."

I took a deep breath once the door had shut behind me, only to find myself gravitating back towards the bar, now-empty cup in hand.

Another drink sounded like a good idea before the ride home.

♡

Surely enough, I got a call as soon as I returned home that night. 

Hesitantly, I answered it, only to hear a familiar voice on the other line. "Jesus, firecracker," he said. "Didn't figure you'd pick up on the first ring. Do you ever sleep?"

I sighed. "I thought you agreed to only call when it was absolutely imperative."

"It is," he replied. "You forgot your lighter."

I sighed then. Of all the things in the world to leave, it had to be something I needed to get through most days. "Damn," I cursed. "Guess we'll just have to see each other sooner, then, won't we?"

"What ever happened to 'we ought to quit?'" he asked.

"Well..." I sighed, running a hand across my face in desperation. "Guess we all say things we don't mean sometimes."

"Obviously." He paused momentarily before continuing with a yawn. "Well," he said. "See you soon, fledgling. Guess I better hit the hay."

"You do that," I replied. Then, because my manners got the better of me: "goodnight, Kurt."

I could hear the smile in his voice when he responded. "Goodnight, Anastasia."

A steady beep followed. The drone of it was enough to put me to sleep.


End file.
